“Nicole, that’s a bad idea.”
“What about artificial insemination?”
“You’re missing the point which is that I’ve been a father. I’ve raised a kid, it did not go particularly well if tonight was any indication, and I’m not doing it again.”
“She’s grown. No one looked for the afikomen this evening.”
“We can wait for a grandchild.”
“Hah! You think Aviva and Imani are going to be parents?”
Jay still was not convinced his daughter was gay, nor was he pondering how her life would progress past college. The idea of Imani Mayfield as his future daughter-in-law was beyond comprehension.
“I’m choosing not to think about it.”
“Meet your grandson, Louis Farrakhan Gladstone.”
Despite himself, Jay laughed. “Listen to me, Nickie.” The childhood nickname only brought out when he needed to communicate something meant to reach the deepest layer of her core. Jay sensed she was girding herself. He gently caressed her arm, gazed directly into her eyes, and said: “No more kids.”
She absorbed this declaration and did not reply. Instead, she turned away and climbed out of bed. From a chair, she retrieved a robe and threw it on, fists shooting through the sleeves like a fighter’s. She grabbed the Spinoza biography and shoved it under her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m sleeping in the pool house,” slamming the door behind her.
What Jay felt more than frustration or anger was sweet relief. He was not worried. A version of this exchange had occurred several times and invariably Nicole, upon reflection (and the recognition of the reality that a signed agreement existed stating she accepted there would be no children in the marriage), softened her stance and allowed peace to reign.
Jay took a sleeping pill and dozed off wondering why his wife was reading about Spinoza of all people, an iconoclast who challenged man’s relationship to God, who questioned the very nature of God. Wasn’t he the Jew other Jews wanted to be rid of? Jay had wrestled with Spinoza in college when he wrote a paper on 16th century Amsterdam that paired the philosopher with the painter Vermeer with whom he overlapped. Jay had told Nicole about it when he saw she was reading the book. Something about Spinoza’s story did not ring true to him. However outrageously an individual carried on in the realm of family, business, or theology, the Jews were not supposed to excommunicate. With his exquisitely rendered, orderly canvasses that spoke to a rational, mercantile world, the artist had been a far greater source of pleasure than the philosopher.
When Jay awoke the following morning, Nicole had not returned. He showered, dressed, ate breakfast, and still no sign of her. Since her Range Rover was in the garage, he assumed she was horseback riding. It was their custom to leave a note signed with several xs and os if one of them left the house on anything other than a short errand. On that morning, Jay’s pen remained in his pocket. He would not see her before leaving for Africa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The degradation of our increasingly delicate planet caused by the merciless extraction of fossil fuel led the eco-aware Jay a decade earlier to renounce the use of private jets in any but the most unusual circumstances, so late that evening, after drinks with Church Scott during which they resolved the D’Angelo Maxwell contract situation (there would be no max deal, although they would raise their initial offer, and no deal at all if the team failed to qualify for the playoffs), and an early dinner with Bebe at the Paladin Club, he boarded a commercial flight to Johannesburg, South Africa. Following the complimentary glass of champagne served in the first-class cabin Jay’s seat morphed into a bed surrounded by a curved fiberglass shell that made him feel like he was lying in a large egg.
For a couple of hours, he read A History of the Weimar Republic and listened to German language lessons. He would send President Obama a note apologizing for missing the dinner at the Waldorf and include a copy of the book as a gift. As Jay covered himself with a quilt and tried to find a comfortable position, his thoughts turned, as they often did, to his father. During the 1970s, at the height of the apartheid regime, the two had often argued about South Africa. Although Bingo believed all races and creeds were equal, he saw nothing wrong with speculating in the Krugerrand, an activity his son found abhorrent. Jay made no effort to hide his strong feelings but although Bingo celebrated Nelson Mandela’s release from Robben Island with the rest of the world and applauded the collapse of the regime that soon followed, the decisions the elder Gladstone made regarding his financial dealings lacked the moral dimension Jay vowed his own would not. When the events of the previous evening—the Seder, the wife, the daughter, her friend—intruded upon his thoughts, as they had throughout the day, he smiled to himself and thought about what Bingo Gladstone would have made of Imani Mayfield, and then tried to crowbar those unwelcome reminders of last night back to a less accessible place.
But as Jay continued to search for a position in which sleep might visit, pesky thoughts of Aviva sailed over the ramparts of his consciousness like arrows. His text from the night before had gone unreturned. Until now he had congratulated himself on his imperturbability in the face of his daughter’s new identity. He had done a little reading about the “gender fluidity” of her generation and, since he viewed himself as a paragon of tolerance, felt slightly hypocritical at even having acknowledged, if only to himself, that he was not comfortable with her sexuality. If she persisted in traveling that road he would learn to live with it. More problematic for him was her complete lack of interest in the family business. This attitude did not look to be changing anytime soon, which made his thoughts turn, as they invariably did, toward the unhappy Nicole, from whom he had not heard all day. She had failed to respond to the multiple conciliatory messages he had left. “Hey, it’s me,” he said, trying to maintain an even tone. “Just wanted to say goodbye and I love you, and to quote the Beatles, ‘We can work it out.’” He regretted the Beatles quote immediately—too corny—but hoped she would appreciate the sentiment.
He was no longer quite so certain why he had insisted on the execution of a prenup forbidding children as a condition of their marriage. At the time, five years previous, it had seemed like the way to go. Although Jay loved Aviva, he did not romanticize the idea of children and the thought of another infant, who would not develop into an interesting conversational partner for at least a decade and a half, had little appeal. That was a given. But legacy was something he allowed himself to think about occasionally, and it was one of the ways he framed his relationship with his father, who remained the most influential person in Jay’s life. He doubted Aviva would say that about her father and this troubled him. There were so many ways Bingo resonated in Jay, from his posture, to the steely nature of his resolve to the sanguinity of his worldview. Bingo passed away soon after Jay had married Nicole, but he let his son know how much he liked his second wife. Bingo’s approval meant a great deal, and he found himself considering this as the plane soared through the night.
Perhaps the behavior of his wife, the drinking, the outbursts, was related to thwarted maternal desire. Of course, those patterns were never traceable to one thing, but this particular situation was not having a positive effect on her state of mind. Nicole had the skills to be a mother, certainly. She was kind and loving, and although her relations with her own family were not the best, she made an effort with the various Gladstones. Certainly, the connection Nicole had with Bingo was real. His father told Jay that he admired the manner in which she had claimed her place in the world (“She’s got a lot of moxie,” Bingo said) and that was one of the qualities that made her attractive to Jay. The more he considered the question of a child and his stubbornness around the subject, the more he regretted his behavior.
While he thought about Nicole, he felt an unwelcome twinge in his lower abdomen. What was that? The oysters he had consumed earlier at the Paladin Club were the of
highest quality so they couldn’t be the cause. Jay was not the kind of man who ascribed every unfamiliar sensation to disease, but his mind just then dropped three inches from abdomen to prostate. Was he feeling something there, too, or was that his imagination? What sinister florescence might be occurring in that highly vulnerable neighborhood? A friend in the real estate business had only last year received a cancer diagnosis, been told what he had was treatable, and died three weeks later. A lawyer he worked with, a veritable Yo-Yo Ma of the tax code was cooking a ragu in his Martha’s Vineyard kitchen the previous summer and dropped dead from an embolism.
Death encroached.
The notion that who knew how long any of us would live was not one Jay often dwelled on but now he found himself thinking about it. Perhaps he would revisit the idea of having a child with Nicole. It was his calculation that her desire to have a baby was far greater than his desire to avoid one. If he were not going to get another divorce, a new Gladstone would only make his life easier. He could name a son (a son!) after his father. In the Jewish tradition, one was only required to use the first letter in the naming of the baby, so the options were many: Benjamin, Barrett, Barack. Barack Gladstone! Named in blessed memory of Bernard of the Bronx. It would be worth calling the baby Barack just to tweak his cousin Franklin.
What was that abdominal pain he was feeling? It was there for a few seconds, and then it was gone. He shifted his weight, and the pain returned, or did it? Determined not to have the night derailed by minor discomfort, he sat up, reached beneath the seat for his bag, and rooted out the painkillers he congratulated himself for having remembered to pack. He swallowed one, chased it with water, and again reclined on the egg bed where he continued to think about Nicole and her desire to expand their family. He vowed to revisit the situation when he returned from the trip.
In South Africa, Jay met with the minister of trade and industry, the local engineering team, and the president, who had been following the Gladstone project with eager interest. Jay visited the site of the proposed town, thirty kilometers from Durban, along with a delegation of government ministers and representatives of the local media. When he gazed over the land, he thought of his father’s proudest achievement, Gladstone Green, affordable housing built in the Queens of the 1960s, and a smile danced on his lips as he felt Bingo’s spirit rise within his breast.
He followed the news at home and was thrilled that his team beat the Charlotte Hornets, disappointed they lost to the Chicago Bulls, noting that Dag had scored twenty-five points in the loss, but sat out the win because his knee had flared up.
Jay initiated a rapprochement with Nicole—she finally picked up the phone when he called—and was optimistic about the improvement of relations upon his return, particularly given that he had decided he was going to broach the subject of the hoped-for pregnancy. The only blight on Jay’s time in Africa was the sensation in the area where his urologist had extracted tissue samples. As he worked his way through the increasingly ineffective painkillers, he feared a return visit to the doctor would occur sooner than planned.
Jay’s trip had been so efficient that he was able to cut it short. The journey from Africa back to New York would have been wholly uneventful were it not for the ratcheting up of the pain he was experiencing. The long westward flight passed in fractured sleep, a haze of movies he couldn’t remember, and whiskeys he shouldn’t have consumed. The stewardess offered champagne before landing, and he drank several glasses. When Boris met him late in the evening at Kennedy Airport, Jay was not in the mood to talk about his trip, or anything else, and slid exhaustedly into the backseat of the Mercedes for the drive to Bedford. It was after eleven and he fell asleep as they drove over the Whitestone Bridge.
Jay awoke as Boris guided the Mercedes to a stop in the driveway. He did not feel well when he climbed out of the car and steadied himself for the walk up the steps to the front door. When Boris departed, Jay lumbered upstairs, carrying a diamond pendant purchased in Johannesburg with which to surprise Nicole (he had not informed her of this change in travel plans). Because there were lights on he assumed she was home, but as he moved from room to room calling her name there was no response.
Sometimes when Nicole could not sleep, she would visit the stables and commune with the horses. That evening the property was wreathed in mist and when Jay looked toward the stables from a second-floor window all he could discern was a great swath of darkness. But a soft blush of interior illumination lit the pool house situated down a small incline from the main residence. With the diamond in his pocket, he made his way unsteadily downstairs, his hand on the smooth stained oak banister. How much liquor had he consumed on the plane? He couldn’t recall as he stopped in the kitchen to pour a glass of water that he drained in one continuous gulp before tilting in the direction of the backyard.
The dewy grass was already lush from the spring rains and slick under the feet of his leather-soled loafers. The cicadas had arrived, and their symphonic hum seemed louder and more insistent than usual. The chilly night air customarily would have invigorated Jay but because of something unholy going on between what he had eaten, the whiskey he had imbibed, and the painkillers, it only added to his queasiness. Perhaps after he greeted Nicole, he would ask her to drive him to Northern Westchester Hospital. He comforted himself with the nostrum that a course of antibiotics would take care of whatever it was.
Nicole had transformed the pool house into a guest cottage and jewelry studio. The door opened into an art-filled space with a small kitchen to one side and across from that a workbench with neatly arranged materials and tools. Beyond was the bedroom.
The glow Jay discerned was coming from the pool house bedroom where the door was slightly ajar. He padded over a Turkish rug that belonged on a museum wall—the couple had recently purchased it on a whim in Istanbul—so as not to wake Nicole in the event she had fallen asleep while reading in bed. Had she finished the Spinoza biography yet? As he reached for the diamond pendant, he thought about their wedding day, and about how being apart for a week threw her best qualities into sharper relief. These memories cut through the physical pain that clawed him. It would be good to see his wife.
Gently, Jay pushed the door open and in the dimly lit room beheld Nicole on the bed astride a man, bucking wildly up and down in a rhythmic trance of ecstasy punctuated with sounds her husband had never before heard her produce. The physical force generated by this image felt to Jay as if it would send him reeling back but the weakness of his body kept him rooted in place, and he stared in mute bewilderment. The musk of sex filled his nostrils. His lower jaw moved down and up, once, twice; but whether it was a nervous twitch or an attempt to speak was impossible to tell.
Before Jay could form words, the male figure in the bed said, “Oh, shit,” in a subterranean timbre and that was when Jay realized the man penetrating his wife was D’Angelo Maxwell.
Nicole whirled around and shrieked. She rolled off the nine-time All-Star, grabbed the floral duvet, and reflexively covered her breasts. Dag did not move.
Jay inclined his head two degrees left and with as much savoir-faire as he could manage, given the situation, plaintively asked:
“Why does everyone in this family need to have sex with black people?”
Later, he never denied uttering those words.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It should be noted that Jay’s question was posed in genuine wonderment as if he wanted to know how iron was extracted from mountains and transformed into skyscrapers or how feathers were related to the concept of flight. It was empirical, an attempt to expand limited knowledge. Bafflement and incandescent rage were threaded into his question, too, but indeed, at that ghastly moment, the undeniable nadir of his entire life (until then), he needed to know. Because that was how he could create a delay, a habitable nothingness in which he could dwell, and not have to address what was in front of him and its more global ramifications.
/> “This never shoulda happened,” Dag said.
Boxers slipped on; trousers pulled up; the player buttoned his shirt with its starched upturned collar. When Dag rose to his immense height and threw his jacket over his shoulders, Jay realized he was wearing a tuxedo. Nicole’s dress, one of her closet full of slinky designer numbers, was draped on a chair. Jay remembered: the Waldorf-Astoria event for President Obama.
The errant wife huddled in bed, watching her addled husband, who had not followed up his initial query with a statement, another question, an accusation, or any sound at all. Nicole seemed to be of the mind that this was a propitious time to say nothing. Condition red, she idled and waited to see what Jay might do.
“Did you get to meet the president?”
“Y-yes,” she managed.
Dag ignored the question, assumed it was not for him.
The membrane of insouciance Jay attempted to maintain was straining against the weight of the immense psychological force unleashed by his discovery, and the emotional battering blended with his ongoing physical discomfort to nearly undo him. His stomach seemed to have plummeted several inches, crowding his pubis, his bowels felt as if they were sliding down, and what was going on with his prostate?
“Sorry about this,” Dag mumbled. “No excuse.” Striding to the door, he loomed like an ocean liner. The mixture of sweat and body spray wafting off him was overpowering. Jay glanced in his direction as if the man were something repulsive that had become affixed to a shoe, but the difference in their dimensions allayed whatever mad notion the owner might have for a nanosecond entertained about wreaking physical revenge on the player. Jay would never strike anyone, much less a man of D’Angelo Maxwell’s intimidating dimensions, but he wanted to say something that would make an impression, anything really, other than the lame question he had posed in a misguided attempt at suavity. If this was the extent of his verbal capacity, better to have already left the scene.
The Hazards of Good Fortune Page 26